The Art of Breathing
by midstormynight
Summary: Edward is a single father trying to protect his son from the past and a future that could shatter their lives. Car trouble on a stormy night brings them to a cabin in the woods and the doorstep of the enigmatic Bella. AH, M
1. Chapter 1

The Art of Breathing

Summary: Edward is a single father trying to protect his son from the past and a future that could shatter their lives. Car trouble on a stormy night brings them to a cabin in the woods and the doorstep of the enigmatic Bella.

Warning: This is rated M. It contains adult themes including sex and violence. Please note this includes the possibility of sexual assault. No dramatic situation in this story will be exploited for mere shock value, it will always be justified within the storyline. I encourage anyone who finds any of the above difficult or offensive to not read. There is no cutting or drug use. Thanks.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. Everything else is my original work. It may not be copied, reproduced or distributed in any format (internet, print, media) without my express written consent. Copyright midstormynight © 2009.

Thank you to Project Team Beta.

***

PROLOGUE

EDWARD

It was cold and raining like a bitch, sheeting the roads in black ice. There was a resounding drip coming from a crack in the windshield, pooling water on the dashboard.

I cursed myself inwardly. _Asshole_. Because, just like so many other things, it should have been fixed months ago. Eventually, the water would freeze, melt, warp the dashboard, soak through to the odometer and screw up all the gauges. That would lead to needing it fixed or buying a new car, whichever was cheaper, and neither were a possibility.

_Asshole_.

I crinkled out of my worn leather jacket, pulled off my ratty green v-neck and crammed it under the drip. I sighed, watching the damn drops bubble and cascade off the cheap acrylic blend. My moth-holed t-shirt would have been better, but there was no way I was giving it up now that I wouldn't have my sweater. I folded myself back into my leather, for the first time in four years resenting its lack of a lining.

I had the defroster on high. Its wheezing drone threatened to stall the car, but I refused to turn it off. We needed that sound; it lulled us in our unbalanced sense of security. The deafening silence between us had become too much. We hadn't spoken or touched in days. She stopped looking at me the second she heard me make the arrangements.

The day had quickly become our worst in weeks. Not because of the shit weather or the booming silence, but because _this was going to happen_.

She stayed in bed long after the alarm, burrowed under the quilt, a small hole for breathing, granting no other access to me or the outside world. She ignored my gentle prodding -- pulling the blinds, a cup of coffee on the nightstand, her clothes laid neatly on the chair across from the bed.

I gave her an extra hour then took the quilt away.

The violation sent her scurrying to the headboard, knees and arms skittering from the confines of a faded and frayed Sex Pistols tee, surrendering nothing but a piercing glare.

This was the woman I loved, the mother of my child, yet at that moment I couldn't help likening her movements to a cockroach caught in a flood of overhead light. She was a shadow of her former self; spawn of the parasite that savagely fed on us, favoring the sweet, leaving behind the bitter fragile shell that had become our life.

Our marriage was a skipping record, stuck in a jagged rut, unable to progress and too damaged to listen to. We were no longer capable of picking up the needle and dropping it on the next track. Too much had happened.

We spent the next five hours simply staring each other down, neither of us gaining ground. I welcomed the stalemate. It felt good just to have her see me, even if her eyes steeled with resentment.

Sometime around noon, she made the decision to silently dress. She peeled my tattered thrift store find from her body, baring her ample curves.

It had been eight months and the plush footprint of childbirth still clung to her gaunt, delicate features. Her hand unconsciously ghosted over one breast, leaving it flexing for sensation as she continued to the other. Spindly fingers scooped underneath its robust curve to palm the weight and her insomnious eyes briefly lidded to gauge its motherly fullness.

I marveled at her actions. The moment was pure, unabashed and so damned honest. _Beautiful_. I basked in what that simple tick in time could afford her – me – us… _US._

All too soon her hand dropped from the breast, accentuating a flop back into its newfound sag. A volatile frown tugged at her lips as she eyed her once taut body's betrayal with disgust.

She quietly shimmied into her too-tight jeans, but not before allowing me to see her love for me deaden. I pushed it aside, not permitting myself to feel remorse -- _This had to be done._

It was another two hours of wordless jockeying before she got in the car. The drive was thick with contempt and tension. She hated me for bringing her there, and I hated doing it, but _we needed to deal with this._

I rationalized and justified a million times, and almost turned the car around just as many, but I didn't because _we had to do this._

I stared past the peeling faux leather steering wheel to the temperature gauge, watching its slow ascent, knowing the car was on the brink of over-heating. It seemed strange in such cold weather, but the Volvo was old and tired, had a few rust spots, the crack in the windshield and was seemingly an inch away from the scrap yard.

We'd been parked curbside going on three hours. I was still convincing myself it was the right thing to do yet I couldn't look her in the eye. I certainly couldn't make her go. Hell, I didn't even want to go.

So we sat, windows fogged, listening to the endless whimper of the struggling defroster. I waited, we both did, enduring nails on a chalkboard as our hearts silently broke with every passing second. Soon the engine would overheat, forcing us out of the car and a step closer to maybe getting us through that damned door.

'_Maybe.'_ I loathed that word. We'd banked our dreams on it, the epitome of hope, full of possibility. Except lately it had dealt the cruelest of uncertainties. 'Maybe' meant no guarantee, instability. It was fickle and had made us its bitch.

'_Maybe' if we ignore it._

'_Maybe' just once._

'_Maybe' it's not so bad._

'_Maybe' it will get better._

'_Maybe' things will change._

'_Maybe' we can forget._

'_Maybe' we can pretend._

'_Maybe' we don't need to think._

'_Maybe' we don't need to feel._

'_Maybe' we'll survive._

'_Maybe' we won't._

'_Maybe' HE won't._

That one word was at the crux of everything. Our world had fallen off axis, and somewhere along the line, I had allowed the loss of gravity to feel comfortable, the norm. No one had paid more of a price than him, our son… No more. He was suffocating under our '_maybes,'_ and that was not going to fucking continue.

With that smarting revelation, I made the final decision. She could hate, punch, stab me for all I cared _we were doing this. She was doing this!_

By the time he was released from the hospital this shit would be sorted out. No more ignoring. No more dismissing. No more excusing. Most of all, no more forgiving what could not, would not, be forgiven again.

I felt her suddenly tense as I removed the key from the ignition. She knew what was coming and refused to meet my eyes as I gently spoke.

"Baby, we need to do this now. We've put it off long enough. It's time."

I didn't wait for a response. I didn't want to hear one. It took every fiber of my being to force myself from the car and leave her sitting alone.

My heart pounded against my chest, its chaotic thump drowning out all other sound. I strode around to her door, already numb to the pelting rain. I was desperate for her to make the same decision.

A thin canvas of fog had crept up the passenger side window. I saw her, perhaps more clearly now through the hazy glass than I had in months. There was utter contempt, pain and sheer panic etched in her pale features. Even in profile, her once bountiful beauty brimmed with acidic despair.

I choked back the bile burning my throat and opened the door. I fought the urge to wrap her in my arms, whisper apologies and once more ignore reality. Instead, I held out a shaky hand for her to take.

She ignored it, fixating on the lyrical streaks of fog upon the cracked windshield. That's when I knew she would never get out. Her soul was limp, and I helped push it there.

A searing pain shot through my chest as I realized she was slipping away before my eyes. This had to happen now or not at all. I had to get her out of the car and through that door or we'd lose her for good. She'd retreat and never look back.

I knelt down, tentatively brushing her cheek with the back of my fingers, her head wilted into my caress, melting the barrier between us. She slowly shifted her entire body to fall into the security of my chest. Finally, she had found home again.

A cold sweat chased across my brow with the thought of what was to come. We had reconciled like this before. Too many times we'd come back from complete destruction, only to repeat the same mistakes. _Not this time._ I took a heavy breath and found my voice, "I love you. Always. Now walk through that door with me."

She flinched, pulling back. Her brow tightly knitted, pained eyes searching mine for the understanding that wasn't going to come. Instead, I offered her more encouragement. "For me… For Matthew—"

She let out a rabid shriek, "Don't you say his name!"

Her hand grasped hold of the open car door before I could register what she was doing. The door swung hard and fast toward me.

A searing pain sliced up the length of my spine and split wide behind my eyes. An explosion of dark spots threatened my vision. The crushing weight of the door knocked me senseless into the car frame before slackening. My stunned body crumpled onto the icy wet pavement.

I barely registered her sobs. "I'm sorry. Oh, God – I can't do this!"

The ground bowed and flexed beneath as I clawed to my hands and knees. I reached for her hand, pleading. I couldn't catch my breath. She was doing this. She was leaving him. Me. Us.

Her trembling hands smothered the gasping sobs as she shook her head. "I can't. Forgive me." She sidestepped me, running full-tilt into the dark sleeting rain.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Warning: This is rated M. It contains adult themes including sex and violence. Please note this includes the possibility of sexual assault. No dramatic situation in this story will be exploited for mere shock value, it will always be justified within the storyline. I encourage anyone who finds any of the above difficult or offensive to not read. No cutting or drug use.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. Everything else is my original work. Please do not copy, distribute or reproduce without asking. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

***

EDWARD

My eyes puckered from the sting of recycled heat as it blew thick and stale from the vent. I wanted to flick the slats away but they taunted me with the irony of the situation. A little over four years and my life had come full circle, history eerily repeating itself. I was waiting in the cold, dark rain for another car to die, except this time risking my sleeping five-year-old son.

I had tried to protect him, keep him safe, yet here we sat, tires wedged deep, glutted with mud, miles off the main road. It had been nearly two hours since I got the car stuck and the gas tank was nearing empty. Once more, I was allowing my options to run out before taking action. I had become that man again, the coward I vowed would never return.

I had learned nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was still an _Asshole_.

I couldn't call for a tow. My cell phone sat where I'd abandoned it, charging on the kitchen counter. Only now had I realized my sheer stupidity of leaving Chicago to drive across the country without a pre-paid phone. I glanced through the distorted drops hitting the windshield to a distant tendril of chimney smoke curling over the tree line. I gauged the distance -- It was probably a mile away.

_Fuck._

My fingers balled around the steering wheel and I silently, violently, shook it twice. I swallowed my frustrated gasps, praying not to wake him. Matthew deserved better than the hand he'd been dealt. He deserved better than her and if I were being honest, he deserved better than me. But, he and I were all each other had. I was his rock, his unwavering constant and I'd be damned if I ever let him see me fall apart.

I twisted around to take in his sleeping form. He slept soundly across the leather seats, arms and legs twisted in an odd contortion only a five-year-old could find comfortable. The patter of rain against the windows cast soft shadows of jumbled polka dots over him. His dark auburn locks had matted into unruly tufts from not being washed in a few days. He looked at peace and unmarred by the strain of the past forty-eight hours.

With one phone call, the life I'd painstakingly pieced together and nurtured was brought to its knees. We'd been living encased in a snow globe, an idealistic version of happiness endlessly submerged under the weight of stagnant water. It was as close to perfection as I'd been able to create for him. The call two days ago had single-handedly flipped us upside down – sending the particles of our lives swirling into chaos, huddling in a heavy mass above our heads. We were sitting here now because I couldn't wait for it to right itself and rain down upon us, or worse, for it to shatter.

It was a surreal slap of reality; she had snuck onto school grounds, knuckled her way past Matthew's kindergarten teacher in an attempt stake a predatory claim as his mommy. Fortunately, I'd kept Matthew home that day to recover from a cold, narrowly escaping her grasp and giving us a chance to run.

Under the guise of a vacation, I'd torn him away from the only life he'd ever known. It would be a while before he understood the gravity of what I'd done. He'd most likely hate me but it was the lesser of two evils. I hadn't yet grasped the implications of what had happened but I knew there was no other choice. The gauntlet had once again been thrown and we weren't sticking around for whatever twisted battle was brewing.

I'd made the right decision, the choice I should have made years ago when the opportunity first presented itself, but was too frightened at the time to take. This wasn't a cliché, a 'better late than never' situation. It was fucked up; abhorrently so and stalling out now wouldn't erase the past, right or wrong. My stomach rolled in disgust. We needed to get out of the car. _Fuck._

I turned back around, put the car in gear once more to ensure we were indeed stuck. The engine grumbled as I depressed the gas, the tires whirring at a mad pace as they spun out. The car was going nowhere.

I closed my eyes, allowing Matthew's whisper of a snore to ground me before facing the inevitable. He was the beacon spurring me forward. I had to do this for him. I stole one final moment then looked through the windshield once more. The distant chimney smoke was beckoning. _One foot in front of the other. First thing first._

With reluctant resolve, I turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. I was going to be forced to take him into the rain. _Asshole._

I wanted to wait as long as I could before rousing Matthew. He'd thrown a tantrum earlier from the stress of being in the car for two days. Eventually I would have to break it to him that we were never going back and that this was his home now. He'd never again play with his favorite toys, sleep in his rocket ship bed or play with Mrs. Cope's dog. He'd never understand or forgive not getting to say good-bye to his first and only friend. I was a bastard for the devastation but I'd do it again if I had to. All were acceptable sacrifices because he'd also never meet the woman who wanted to be his mother.

With the exception of the cell phone, I'd been meticulous with my planning. We were packed and out the door within ten minutes of the call. It took me another two hours to close my bank accounts, change the license plate to one I'd picked up at a flea market and disable the car's low-jack and GPS. There was no way to track us. I'd had this all plotted for years because I knew this day would eventually come.

A few years ago, I'd set up new identification under my birth mother's maiden name of Masen. Getting that information would be difficult considering the records were sealed. I hadn't even been privy to it until three years ago. So not to confuse Matthew, he'd keep his first name and I would be Ward Masen, simply dropping 'Ed' from my first name.

The strong patter of rain against silent car pulled me from my thoughts. I pushed all trepidation aside, chancing one more glance at Matthew's sleeping form before reaching over the seat to wake him.

"Matty, bud, it's time to get up. The car's stuck so I'm going to have to carry you for a bit."

A barely audible growl snuck past his innocent pout as he rolled away from my request. I couldn't help but smirk; he'd learned that trick from me. _Definitely my son. _

We had flimsy fall coats with sweaters underneath but nothing to withstand rainy Washington State. The rain would set a chill quickly and Matthew had just gotten over his cold. His immune system was weaker than it should be so I'd wrap him inside my coat and make a run for it. _I had to do this. No other choice._

I reached over the seat, rubbing my hand soothingly over Matthew's back, coaxing him to roll over to face me. His sleep ebbed at my touch and he began to lazily stretch.

A peal of thunder echoed across the night. Matthew's eyes shot open, a purring giggle bubbling from his chest. He loved the rain. The size of drops, the depth of puddles, and the way it twisted in the wind. It all fascinated him.

On rainy days, he'd spend hours in front of the loft windows with his crayons and paints, capturing what he saw. He liked the wet weather more than snow, more than the sun even. Every picture always had rain.

I asked him, "Why don't you draw the sun? You love it don't you? The warm? The happy?"

I swear he would have rolled his eyes, if he knew what it meant. Instead, he motioned me to pull up a knee so we were eye level. He puffed out his chest with a heavy sigh, slapped a hand on my shoulder and then proceeded to school me.

"Daddy, the rain isn't sad. He's happy like the sun. He's sharin' his joy tears 'cause he gets to be the star too. People think he's bad but he's not. He's just bein' friendly. No one draws him 'cause he's different, like me. I'm different and that don't mean I'm bad. See? I draw him 'cause he's loved too."

That was my son, sensitive, full of empathy. He had endless adoration for the underdog, the misfit, the odd, the different and the strange. Welcoming all with open arms.

His compassion knew no bounds, even when it came to toys. Always preferring the 'reduced to sell' and 'slightly damaged' because they were just as worthy as the perfect ones. In his eyes, far superior because it made the toys special. Not broken. Never broken. Special.

One would think that quality alone would make him a great friend to have. On the playground, he'd continually trade expensive new toys for broken ones, letting kids think they'd pulled one over on him. Proud that they'd taken advantage of the boy with the funny leg but Matthew knew what he was doing. I'd watch the wheels turning in his industrious little mind as he puzzled out how to get the worn, no longer appreciated toy away from the child. Truth be told, I actually felt sorry for those kids, they didn't even realize the situation was reversed, Matthew always had the upper hand. The kicker was that he did it because he wanted to save the toy, make it feel wanted; somehow reassure it that it was unconditionally loved regardless of its flaws.

Watching him do this over and over again, broke a piece of me every time because whether he realized it or not, in his own way, he was giving them what he so desperately wanted from his absent mother. He'd never admit it, but I know he thinks she left because he's 'special'. Not broken. Special._ He's perfect._

An exasperated gasp pulled my attention back to him.

"Dad, it's rainin'. I don't have my frogs on." He stared down at his jacket and sneakers as if waiting for them to magically transform into his Kermit the Frog rain gear. "Gotta have my frogs to go in the rain, right?"

Of course, he'd pick then to remember the rain rule. "I'm sorry buddy, I forgot to pack them. Tomorrow we'll get you some new ones. I'm going to carry you."

His eyes brightened. "Piggyback?"

"Nope. Got to go sidesaddle, cowboy."

He tucked his bottom lip into his mouth and nodded. "'kay."

I quickly got out of the car, ignoring the wheezing rain. Its sharp repetitive drone was oddly soothing in its cadence, ratta-tat-tatting against me.

I took several deep breaths, refusing to berate my actions. I just needed to stay focused on the bare bones, the basic details of what needed to be done. I wasn't capable of anything more. With any luck, we'd be out of the rain in fifteen minutes, seated next to the tow truck driver in forty and in a motel room in a little over an hour. I'd bathe Matty and tuck him in, then disappear into the bathroom to deal with the consequences of what I'd done, the shit I was barely suppressing.

_Just checking things off a list, step after step. _I allowed the weather to cleanse me of my ever increasing anxiety. I wasn't certain what we'd find beyond the tree line. Regardless, the smoke was our only chance.

I swung the back door open, unzipping my jacket and holding it open as Matthew wrapped his arms tightly around my neck. I holstered him on my hip, holding my jacket around us, unable to zip it closed. I kicked the car door shut not bothering to lock it or set the alarm. If someone had the patience to dig it out to steal it, they could have it. Besides, with the fake license plate I wouldn't be able to report it.

Matthew rapidly blinked to take in the dark and desolate road surrounding us. I could tell it unsettled him to be in such a scary place with nothing but moonlight to guide us. I had to get his mind off it. "Command your horse, cowboy."

Matthew squealed with delight, relieved I was making this fun. He gave me a tight squeeze and yelped, "Giddy up!"

I gave the best 'whinny' I could muster; clucking my tongue to imitate horse's hoofs and took off running. The entire time, praying to out run the past and ignoring the dread of racing into the unknown.

We were soaked by the time we reached the cabin. I'd given up running a half-mile back, unable to maintain stability in the mud. Matthew's head was tucked under the jacket, our horse game no longer appealing. He was overtired, cold and irritable. I had never hated myself as much as I did then. I'd stranded us in this awful situation and now the only way out sat inside the shadowed structure.

The cabin sat well hidden from prying eyes. If it weren't for the sharp bite of chimney smoke, it would have appeared uninhabited. Heavy shutters clamped shut over the windows, giving no glimpse of internal light or movement. Its wrap-around porch had seen better days, same with the splintered wood siding but even in the dark, it appeared to be well loved. An old porch swing swayed gently in the storm's breeze. Two large foil pinwheels and an incomplete mosaic of various non-descript rocks formed a makeshift walkway leading to the porch steps. The work in progress was a sharp contrast to its forested surroundings.

Once on the porch, I nuzzled Matthew closer, pulling back the coat to kiss the top of his head. His green eyes weary and ready to sleep. We exchanged commiserating half smiles. "We'll be able to get some help here. Just a bit longer and we'll get a motel for the night."

Matthew meekly nodded before burrowing himself further against my chest. He was definitely going to get sick again. Any apprehension I'd felt about approaching the cabin dissipated. Matthew needed me, not my nerves. I'd made so many mistakes, which he was forever paying for. This would not be another one. I tempered my anxiety and knocked on the door.

Startled movement emanated from inside as we waited for the door to be answered. A long moment passed and no one came. I knocked once more, this time louder.

I nervously shifted my weight, hugging Matthew closer as we waited. I scissored my fingers through his tangled hair pulling the moisture away from his face. The simple action grounded me.

After what seemed like an eternity, floorboards creaked directly beyond the door. However, it became obvious whoever was on the other side had no intention of answering.

I bit back my anger and spoke loudly. "My son and I had some car trouble. I don't have a cell phone. Would it be possible to borrow your phone to call for a tow?"

No answer. Another crick of the floorboards reconfirmed that someone was indeed on the other side. I loathed not knowing who. Did they think I couldn't tell they were there? Were they not going to answer? Did they expect us to just go away?

I tried again, this time softening my tone. "Hello? Will you help us?"

More shifting behind the door. What the hell were they doing? Was this some sort of game? My agitation grew. I was done. Nothing mattered except getting Matthew out of this situation. We were getting help and leaving. _Fuck it._

"I know you're on the other side of this door. We can hear you. Please, it's just the use of your phone. You don't even have to open the door, make the call for us. Just don't dismiss us when we clearly need assistance."

A shaky female voice finally responded. "The storm knocked out the phone lines and I don't have a car."

_Shit. _I wasn't prepared. My body constricted, sharp, unyielding as I refused to allow this to break me. I would not, could not, fall apart. _Focus. One foot in front of the other. For Matthew._

She sounded scared. She was probably alone and terrified of the stranger on her doorstep. For all she knew I was here to hurt her.

Her voice, a bit stronger now, spoke again. "I don't have a peephole and the shutters are locked. Can your son maybe say something? So I know he's really with you?"

Relief hit me. She would help us but needed to make sure I really did have a child. "Yes, of course." I nudged him, "Matty, say hello to the nice woman behind the door."

Matthew's brow immediately furrowed, turning his face further into my chest. I brushed my fingers over his cheek. "Matthew, buddy, you've got to say hello." His response was swift, pulling my jacket back over his head, refusing to speak. This was not good.

I laughed uncomfortably, "He's a bit shy. Just give us a moment." I knew my son and there was no way he was going to speak if I pushed him. I needed to figure out what was going on.

I bent down, pulling Matthew from my body and set him on his feet. He wouldn't meet my gaze, instead tucked himself around the back of my leg before mumbling, "Dad, she's a girl."

I sighed. Matthew had come home from kindergarten last week declaring all girls under four feet had cooties. I'd tried to get him to explain the height logic but he assured me his best friend, Jonah, said so which meant it was undeniable fact. With great effort, he'd avoided every girl under four feet since. He'd rather freeze to death than suffer an unimaginable death by cooties. At the time, I found this humorous, now not so much.

I rubbed the back of my neck, Matthew had gotten his stubborn streak from me as well. Clearly, there was only one way around this. I steeled every raw nerve, cleared my throat and spoke to the woman again. "I realize this is going to sound odd but can you please tell my son how tall you are?"

_Shit. _I cringed with realization. It was a serial killer question. She probably thought I was measuring her for a skin suit.

Instead of excruciating silence, we were met by the slightest hint of a stifled laugh. Riding off its quiet wave, "I'm five-foot-four."

There were a series of crisp clanks of what I presumed to be several locks disengaging.

I pulled myself to my full height bringing Matthew with me. We would greet her together. I wanted her to see Matthew and that he did exist and how precious he was.

There was final double click, the door flying open to reveal a twelve-gauge shotgun leveled at my chest.

***

A/N: Huge thanks to my amazing beta, dolphin62598!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything Twilight. The original plot and characters belong to me.

WARNING: The warning posted at the top of the first two chapters will remain in effect for the entire story.

**I don't mind the downloading or sharing of this story for personal use. I only ask that you not plagiarize or publish any part under another name. Please request before uploading this story to another fiction site. As well, please ask before translating.

* * *

**EDWARD**

_A shotgun._

I inhaled sharply, stung by my inability to see this coming. Before I had a chance to process my next move, the present spiraled out from under me...

_I was six, bare legs dangling off the chipped linoleum counter of the motel's laundry room. My body flinched at the harsh clank of the coin slot ejecting to bare its emptiness. The washer's hydraulic hum reverberated through my body, causing my teeth to clatter as I watched water fill the __front loading__ machine. _

_The Russian accent rolled thick from his tongue, edges soft yet laced with arsenic. Not for me, but them. He was beckoning, not demanding, me to pick. "Eenie, Meenie, Minie or Moe?"_

_My fingers twitched in response, my favorite choosing game forever tainted like my innocence. He knew it, we both did. I was a barely balanced seesaw teetering on a precipice, too young to comprehend and too old not to._

_My gaze stayed pinned in place, unable to look away from the milky froth of detergent rising from the washer's depths. Like a tidal wave cresting over a ship's portal, its purity quickly surrendered to a murky sea of color as the clothes began their lackadaisical dance._

_I didn't answer. He understood. He was my father. My protector._

_My eyes shifted focus taking in our forms reflected in the window of the washing machine. I was a pale echo of myself, blurred, out of focus. He was vivid, sharp, crisp with intent. He stood strong, opposing in height, his lithe frame commanding and lethal, not toward me but them._

_He was suddenly foreign to me; something else he understood._

_The back of his hand ghosted over my cheek, silently telling me this was his natural order of things. He wanted me to know his actions would solidify our bond, make it thicker than blood._

_The razor curl of his accent dulled, "Close your eyes. Don't watch, Rabbit."_

_My stomach churned in response, expelling onto the cracked cement floor. He patiently waited, biding his time. When I had finished, I pinched my eyes closed, knowing we would walk out of there and the other two men wouldn't._

Although fleeting, the memory rung loudly through my mind. Its stifling alarm reminding me of another promise broken. I'd sworn my son would never have first hand knowledge of a gun. He'd never feel its powerful glare, fear its deafening connotation or experience its deadly judgment. Yet there we stood, another silent promise broken. _FUCK._

I wanted to run, carry Matthew away from_ this - _this woman, this place and every bad decision I'd ever made. But, I couldn't. We'd run out of options. We needed help and right now _this_ was it. _She_ was it.

"I'm Ward Masen and this is my son, Matthew."

On instinct, I rested my hand atop Matthew's head, thankful that his shyness had him hidden in my shoulder. Seconds felt like hours as I steeled myself to ignore the threat, wait her out.

Her slight frame curled fearlessly around the shotgun. Her stance was unwavering, brown eyes hedging on black, screaming blatant distrust. They shifted between Matthew and I, focusing on our details, appraising our presence, and scanning the area behind us before resting back on me.

Her voice was calm and polite but calculated. "Bella. Where's your car?"

Matthew fussed a little, rolling his head to the side. I kept my hand over his face, blocking him from seeing her. His hand reached up to pluck mine away but I wouldn't budge. He grunted in disapproval before letting his hand curl into his body.

I forced a cordial tone for her. "About a mile east of here. I saw the chimney smoke over the tree line. Do you think you could—?" I nodded to the rifle, silently asking her to lower it.

Her long hair tangled beneath a bulky men's turtleneck. Her eyes darted between Matthew and I once more. I could see a flicker of internal debate but it was quickly suppressed. She met my gaze and shook her head, holding her ground. "What's wrong with it? Your car?"

It took everything I had to force a calm voice. Not for her sake but his. I didn't want him to know there was a gun pointed at us. "It got stuck in the mud."

Her eyes narrowed, grip tightening on the twelve-gauge as if I'd just given something away.

"Thought you said it broke down?"

"No, I said, we had car trouble."

"Car trouble implies mechanical failure."

"It implies a car in need of assistance. I believe being wedged in two feet of mud is needing assistance."

"I suppose." Her eyes flitted over Matthew's shielded form. Doubt consumed her pale features as she looked back, searching me for some unknown truth. Our eyes met once more, daring me to speak, to challenge, to confess, to beg, to - I didn't know. She was a pit bull, unwilling to let go. "It's a bad night to be driving these roads. What were you doing, sight seeing?"

"I took a wrong turn. It happens. My son and I are on vacation." I took a deep breath to quell my rising irritation.

"In October?"

_Was she serious? _My entire body bristled. I ground out my exasperation. "In October."

I'd had it. I was done explaining. What I'd said was either good enough or it wasn't. I wasn't saying another word. So, we stood there, Matthew drenched and limp on my hip, staring each other down. Both demanding yet neither of us willing to speak, tension growing thicker by the second.

Matthew gasped loudly, stiffening in my arms as if he'd finally figured something out. In a yelled whisper, "Dad? Does she have the cooties?"

Her head whipped back to him, realization flooding her face. My cold, wet five-year-old wasn't a threat. He was just a defenseless boy needing her help. She took a shaky breath and lowered the weapon.

I gave Matthew a reassuring squeeze and whispered in his ear, "No, Buddy. She's cootie free."

He nodded; trying to peek through my hand but that wasn't going to happen. Not until I knew she wouldn't change her mind. "Just a minute, okay?"

He released a heavy sigh but didn't fight.

There was a shift in her demeanor toward me. It seared with unspoken judgment but was clear, as much as she didn't want to; she was going to help us. "Come in. I'll get some towels."

We followed her into the cabin, closing the door behind us. I briefly glanced at our surroundings - an open living room and kitchen, a short hallway beside the fireplace where I assumed were a bedroom or two, a storage closet and bathroom. It looked safe, secure and most of all dry. That was all I cared about.

We'd finally caught a break. I felt a bit of the tension I was holding onto leave my body. I'd been panicked we'd be turned away. Staying here wasn't ideal but we'd be safe until morning. A few hours to decompress was all I needed. I'd bury all my other shit until we were settled somewhere else.

I didn't focus on the finer details. I didn't want to know this woman - how she lived, what she loved, her day-to-day. I just wanted to get Matthew through this awful night, have the car towed and leave. No more dirt roads. Tires to asphalt. The monotonous drone carrying us far away from this place, the encroaching past and things better left behind.

She motioned us toward the fireplace while she discretely emptied the shotgun, pocketing the shells and securing it in an otherwise empty gun rack. She opened a closet door and pulled out a stack of towels, setting them on the arm of the chair. Quickly, without a second glance, she opened one of the hallway doors. I caught a glimpse of a double vanity and claw-foot tub before she shut herself inside.

Matthew had begun to shiver. I needed to get him out of his wet clothes. I wasted no time setting him down, removing his soaked jacket and grabbing a towel.

I sighed, realizing she'd just locked herself in the bathroom and it's where I knew I should have been doing this. Matthew's teeth had begun to chatter, highlighting a deep purple tinge to his lips. I couldn't risk waiting. I knelt down, wiping at the wet. He ballooned his face, jutting it out to help, unaware of what I was about to make him do.

I unzipped his jacket, tugging it from his soaked sweater and tossing it on the floor.

If this was going to happen, I needed to be gentle but firm. He wasn't going to like it. I lifted his jaw so our eyes met.

"We have to get you out of these wet clothes."

His eyes shot-wide before darting toward the closed bathroom door. He violently shook his head, panic plucking at his already tight voice. "No. No, daddy."

"I'm sorry, Matty. We'll do it really quick. She won't see. I promise."

He made to step away from me but I swept my arm around his back, gently holding him in place.

He was trembling now, not from the chill but what I was about to force him to do. "Jus' the top, daddy, 'kay? Jus' my top."

He no longer fought to pull away. His eyes pleaded, tears brimming. I wanted to give in but I couldn't. Every second was a lifetime too long.

I bit my inner cheek to stave off my own tears. I needed the puncture of molars through flesh to ground me in this moment. That searing pain to keep my calm facade in place. I focused on removing his shoes and socks.

I heard the squeal of rickety pipes and unmistakable spatter of water against the ceramic tub. She wasn't coming out anytime soon. I cursed under my breath at her rude behavior but was at least thankful that we'd have privacy for what I was about to do.

"She's running a bath for herself. We'll wait to take off the bottoms until we hear the water stop. Then we'll know she's in the tub and not coming out."

His attention strained back to the foreboding door, the gurgling rush of water taunting him. His eyes were pensive, small brows pinching tighter with every moment.

I took advantage of the distraction, pulling his drenched sweater and t-shirt over his head. His small frame was masked in goose bumps and bluish blotches. His chest racked with panicked breaths. I swiftly wrapped a fresh towel over his shoulders, both shielding and warming him as I used a second towel to scrub the wetness from his hair.

The muted rattle of old pipes calmed as the water turned off. Silence emanated from the closed bathroom door. Then I waited. Matthew would let me know when he felt comfortable. I had to be patient or his fight to stay clothed would destroy the tentative peace between us. After a few moments, Matthew realized she would not be coming out.

He turned back to me, still so fearful but ready to be brave. He gave a quick nod.

"Do you want me to help? Or, do you want to do it on your own?"

"You do it." His eyes still worried on the bathroom door.

"Alright. When you're ready, grip the ends of the towel and stretch your arms out wide."

Matthew quickly shook his head, afraid to expose himself.

"It'll be like a curtain behind you. Just in case she comes out, then she won't see. Okay?"

There was a flash of relief behind his eyes, liking the idea. He quickly did as he was told. He was still trembling but his coloring was coming back. The bluish tinge of his skin was blossoming into a friendlier pink.

"You tell me when."

"Dad, you don't look either, 'kay?"

"I won't. Just removing your jeans and Spongebobs."

I had seen his scars more times than he had yet he was still ashamed of them. They were a burden he'd always wear. When he was older we would explore options to have some of them removed but the bigger ones and his limp would always remain. I'd give my life to go back in time, erase the mistakes, protect him the way I should have.

"Now, dad."

I had his jeans unsnapped, unzipped and trudged down to his ankles in a flash. He'd just shimmied his feet free as the bathroom door flew open. Her voice shattering our trust. "I've run a hot bath for Matthew—"

He yelped, pulling the towel haphazardly around his body and unknowingly stumbling away from me. His terrified eyes too focused on her sudden appearance to realize he'd left his leg partially exposed.

Her eyes locked with the multitude of scars that branded his innocent flesh. There was no shame in her gawking. She didn't look away; instead she seemed to be studying them. That sent Matthew over the edge. It was what he feared the most, why he pleaded for me to not remove his pants. He didn't want her to see his scars. He didn't want to see the look she now possessed. The pitied, almost disgusted stare that weighed more than any child should bear.

I shot a piercing glare at her praying she'd feel it and meet my eyes. But she didn't.

Matthew tucked himself behind the sofa, a sad whimper escaped. He was humiliated by this woman and she seemed completely oblivious to his plight.

I cleared my throat, in an attempt to break her trance with my son. In a moment I wasn't going to care if we had to sleep in the cold rain.

Then, as if residing herself to something, she moved to his side. They were having some sort of silent stand off. She knelt down to get a better look. "Please, don't hide."

Matthew was near terrified but stood still. He was being brave, wanting her to like him.

My heart broke. He was so desperate for acceptance that he was willing to let her look at what he always hid.

I knew I should stop this but it was what he wanted. I'd already taken so much from him. I needed to give him this.

She gave Matthew's scars a closer inspection then met his tentative gaze. Her reaction surprised us both. She shrugged it off, making it seem like they were no big deal. With a challenging raise of her brow, she pulled her bulky turtleneck over her head to her tank top underneath, revealing her own history.

My breath caught as I tried to make sense of the myriad of scars that marred her pale complexion. There were distinct lifesaving scars – A small incision at the base of her neck from where she'd had a tracheotomy. Below it, a long scar disappeared beneath her top, between her breasts signaling her chest had been cracked open at one point.

What threw me were the other scars. They were pale but angry and told a much darker tale - A wire thin scar puckered across her throat, not quite reaching from ear to ear. Several inch-wide pitted scars resembling puncture wounds scattered about her upper chest. A jagged scar wrapped thick around her shoulder as if her arm had nearly been severed. She'd been through hell and was lucky to be alive.

Matthew's eyes had grown huge at the site before him. She didn't move or flinch away from his rapt attention. Instead she calmly let him take everything in. She held no fear of rejection.

That's when it hit me. She was doing this for him. _For my son. _She wanted him to feel as comfortable with his scars as she did with hers. To see there was no shame in them. _Could she do that? Give him something I'd never been able to?_

My heart pounded, stomach churning with the possibility. I was in awe of what she was doing but didn't trust her. I was terrified she'd hurt him.

Matthew's hand raised, eager to reach out and touch. I quickly found my voice. "Matthew, we don't just touch people."

He quietly nodded and unabashedly asked her, "Can I touc-?"

I cut him off. "No, Matthew. Do you like when people touch yours?"

He shook his head. He got it, his mind working through the comparison. He sucked in his bottom lip, thrusting his scarred leg out to her. "You can touch mine… If you want. I won't get upset. Promise."

I blinked back a flood of tears, stunned by what he'd done. He'd always thrown tantrums, allowing no one but me do this.

_Matthew trusted her. _She was like him, his kindred spirit and instinctually, she knew this. A warm smile flitted across her lips. "Thank you. You can touch mine too."

She shifted toward him, allowing for his short reach. She waited for him to make the first move then followed his lead.

He marveled at her shoulder scar, the way it bubbled in a crude fashion. "Mine don't hurt no more. Do yours?"

"Nope." Her hand smoothed over his various scars, mindful not to focus on one over another.

He moved on to the puncture scars across her chest. "You have more than me."

"I do."

"Some are really big."

She let out a small chuckle. "Yep."

Her hand moved over his scars once more. "You should be proud of these."

Matthew halted his inspection, confusion and doubt coloring his face. His lower lip trembled as he shook his head, no.

_SHIT._ The last thing he'd ever be was proud. _What the hell was she thinking?_ He'd be depressed for days now.

In two strides I was between them, scooping Matthew up and away from her. He tucked himself into the safety of my chest. Contempt rolled off me in waves. I swung around to gather our things to leave but she stepped in front.

Her expression was venomous as she shot her hand out, demanding I give her one more moment.

_Not a fucking chance._ Whatever twisted mind-fuck mothering she thought she was doing was over. We were leaving. _NOW!_

Her sudden action brought me up short. One of her hands ran over Matthew's scars while the other lovingly cupped his cheek, imploring him to trust her. "Yes, Matthew. You should be very proud."

He studied her, uncertainty laced with hope tumbled from his mouth. "Why?"

"They show your strength. Your courage. Like mine do, for me."

There was an underlying excitement in his tone. "Really?"

"Really. Your scars are nothing to be ashamed of. They're beautiful. Don't ever let anyone tell you different." Her voice was full of conviction, a certainty that Matthew had never heard before.

There was a slight shift in his posture. He seemed taller, lighter. The weight had been lifted. He believed her, echoing her sentiment. "I won't."

She swept a lock of damp hair from his forehead. "Good. Now, I think there's a bath with your name on it."

_She did it. _She'd just given him what I'd never been able to.

I should have thanked her but I couldn't. I didn't trust myself. A chaotic jumble of emotions had torn through me over the past forty-eight hours. _Joy. Hatred. Gratitude. Self-loathing. Rage._ I was raw, needing time to process, compartmentalize. I had to get my head on straight before I tackled the gravity of what just happened. _Step by step. First thing first._

Matthew looked up at me. "Dad, did you hear that? They're not bad. They show how strong I am. My courage!"

I gingerly kissed the top of his head. "I heard."

I finally noticed she'd moved to the hall. All the warmth she'd shared with Matthew evidently cast aside. She'd flipped a switch, cold façade back in place.

"You'll sleep on the sofa. I'll put bedding and sleep clothes out. The washer and dryer are in the bathroom. Feel free to use them. If the phones aren't up by morning I'll ride my bike into town and arrange a tow. Good night."

Finality filled the air as she abruptly turned and entered a door at the end of the hall. We'd been dismissed.

* * *

A/N: Please accept my sincerest thank you for reading my story. I apologize for the obscenely long wait between updates. For a multitude of unexpected RL reasons I wasn't able to post until now.

Huge thanks to Jessica and Rach. You two keep my world on axis! I don't know what I'd do without either of you. Truly! I bow down to your greatness.

Special thanks to forbidden-fruit81 for recommending TAoB to her fabulous readers. MENS REA is one of the best fics out there. It's intelligent, well crafted, sexy and has a mystery guaranteed to keep you on the edge of your seat. Check it out! LOL – Even though most of you found my story through hers.


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